Desperation Samba
by Neon Daisies
Summary: A vignette of two different desperations, and how a certain CIA agent faced both in his time. Some Halloween and Day of the Dead goodness.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of this story but the words. I don't own Mexico, I don't own Sands (that would be Robert Rodriguez), and I don't own the song I based the story around. That song is Halloween in Tijuana (Desperation Samba)­, written and owned by Jimmy Buffett.

**Author's Note:** Desperation Samba is a story of two very different desperations. The first half is that of a younger man, eager to wrap his fist around the territory he's been assigned. The second is that of the same man watching everything he's schemed for crumbing around his feet. It's a fun little vignette for Halloween and Dia del Muertos.

* * *

_Halloween in Tijuana, full moon in my eyes_

_Don't know how in the hell I got here without a disguise._

_Should I take this last step, or turn myself around_

_Or follow my intuition into that border town?_

- - - - - - -

The car is idling. It's a soft, soothing sound. Or at least it is for someone who takes pleasure in a finely tuned engine. Not that he does any of the work himself, but at least he knows his car won't fail him.

Hot, dry desert wind sweeps through the open windows, carrying away the lazy smoke left behind by his cigarette and bringing the sounds of the evening's revelry to his ears. It's the first night of the fall holy days. All Saint's Eve. Halloween. The beginning of Dias del Muertos. The days of the dead. The holiday spans All Saint's Eve, All Saint's Day, and All Soul's Day. Three days of remembering the "honored dead" and living it up on their behalf.

It sounds like his kind of party. After all, starting today, he's dead to everyone in his past. And he gets to live it up in Mexico. True, it's more work than Alaska would have been, but there's so many more…possibilities...for an enterprising man down here. The rules are a bit more lax. Big brother's eye rarely strays this far.

He grins, a shark-like expression of pent up greed and anticipation, not one of humor. Or if there is humor, it's at the expense of those who have set him loose on an unsuspecting country. Already the cogs of his mind are spinning with plans, with schemes, with all the common rules of society he's going to break. The experience will change him, but he doesn't give a damn. He's more than willing to be a chameleon if that's what it takes to grab the situation by the throat and make it dance to his tune.

- - - - - - -

_Yo quiero, a bailar en Mexico_

_Do the desperation samba, con nos amigos._

- - - - - - -

A sense of overwhelming freedom fills him with heady energy. If he's a piper, it's a demented one; he laughs with pure exhilaration and revs the motor, preparing to sweep down on Tijuana like a bat out of hell. And not the glitzy tourist traps. He wants the seamy underbelly where he can find some pretty señorita, buy a bottle of tequila and some grass if he can find it quickly and cheaply enough, then spend the next few days "soaking in the culture" as was recommended to him by his superiors. He wants the life of the city, not the ass-kissing that circulates the money that keeps it alive.

He's supposed to meet up with his fellow agents tomorrow – all of them just as new to the country as he is – to "bond" with them. He'd give ten-to-one odds that they all had the same agenda and that tomorrow's "bonding" would constitute of bragging about the game they'd found tonight and then trolling for more tomorrow.

God bless the USA…and her currency.

The streets are so full of revelers that he has to park on the outskirts of town. For a moment all he can think is that no one better screw with his car, but then an entire group of young señoritas strolls by, their eyes lit with interest and overindulgence in something that would have lowered their inhibitions.

Three days later when he stumbles out of the cheap motel where he's been "celebrating" with more than one woman (but only one at a time) and makes his way back to his car (his wallet a few hundred dollars lighter than it had been before, but all for a good cause), his grin of satisfaction isn't fazed to see that some good-for-nothing kids had egged it. So, it'd need a new paint job. He never liked the other one anyway. It hadn't been flashy enough. And with the scams he's dreamed up, he'll be able to fix that soon enough.

Time to get to work.

- - - - - - -

_Pretty girls they beckon from their rooms above._

_Skeletons are dancing in the name of love._

_Don't know where I'm going, don't like where I've been._

_There may be no exit, but hell, I'm going in._

- - - - - - -

They'd been out last night, just as they'd been out for the previous night. Out hanging their paper flags, and positioning their celebratory _calacas_ – skeletons, or skulls – and preparing for the upcoming festivities. He couldn't walk down the streets without hearing excited girls chattering about what they were going to wear and where they'd be wearing it. There was a tang of tangible excitement in the air as the city prepared for Dias del Muertos.

And what a celebration it'd be. Lots of fireworks. So many dearly departed to lay out _ofrendas_and sugar _calacas_ for. Of course, it wouldn't be at all what they had in mind – coup d'etats and horrific bloodshed rarely were. He'd be having the time of his life though, and that was all that really mattered.

This was what all his years of scheming had led up to. All the work, all the late nights without sleep – well, perhaps not all of those – all the careful selection and elimination of his men. All of it was so he could waltz in under the cover of absolute chaos and take what he wanted.

Five million pesos were worth a social conscience. Or they would have been if his hadn't been severely atrophied by years of not really giving a damn about anyone around him.

Oh well, those were the breaks.

And with five million pesos in his pocket, he thought he could live with himself.

At least he could if everything went off without a hitch.

No, it was too late for that. Cucuy had disappeared – if the brief explosion he'd heard over the tinny receiver of his cell phone was any indication, the man had pissed off a lot of people in the process – and if the bad-tempered Mexican bruiser had sold him off in the deal…

_It doesn't matter,_ he told himself sternly as he prepared himself for the day. He'd never trusted Cucuy as far as he could throw him. He'd never told his companion what it was up to El Mariachi to accomplish. Muscle was useless without the brain, and he was the brain.

Though El Mariachi in himself could be trouble. After years of being a wanted man and of shooting his way out of every conceivable situation, the guitarrista had maintained his conscience. The woman's fault, undoubtedly. Women had an insidious way of softening a man if they were kept in close proximity. Even he could testify to that after his surprising offer to Ajedrez.

_Nothing is going to go wrong._

Still, there was a dark edge to his anticipation.

- - - - - - -

_Yo quiero, a bailar en Mexico_

_Do the desperation samba, con nos amigos._

- - - - - - -

It was worse than he thought. He couldn't get in touch with any of his people, and the clock was ticking. He was not going to surrender this at the last moment, not when he was so close. But he was willing to alter the plan a bit.

_Listen, I cannot do everything by myself. I need someone to go in there with me._ They were all idiots, but not so stupid that he didn't think they'd miss the barely restrained panic in his voice.

_No, I lost my inside man. Probably dead._ Thanks to Mr. Ultrasensitive. _And Cucuy, greedy turd that he is, ratted me out and has disappeared._ He can feel eyes on his back. His path is erratic and he weaves around people and takes occasional, all too brief shelter. _Plus, I'm pretty sure the cartel is shadowing me._ He laughs uneasily. _Now listen, I've got a swell bunch of guys intercepting Marquez's army, but they've got no guns._ No, the spineless dealer who was supposed to be at the meeting place had never showed. _Now listen, I want you to understand me._ People just didn't know how to listen anymore, which was why he reminded them to. _This is no time to screw the pooch, because this is supposed to be the big dance number, all right?_

Silence.

_Hello?_

No one answers. He squelches down his panic.

_Are you there?_

Unless they've become a professional mute, they're not.

_Okay, okay. I'm going to freak right out._

- - - - - - -

_I hear the people singing the same old haunting tune._

_I drink because I know it's me against the moon._

- - - - - - -

_-Crash-_ Whip-crack or artillery?

_-Ratta-tat-tat-tat-_ Drums in the parade or gunfire?

_-Rumble, rumble, rumble...-_ Magic fingers in a cheap hotel room or the feel of advancing tanks?

Pain in his head. Sharp, throbbing, pounding, blinding. Injury or hangover?

Past and present mash together, mingle like food coloring in water, presenting a new view of both until he can't remember which is which.

There's people in the distance. Screaming. Cheering. Sobbing. Laughing. Real or remembered? Festivities or fear?

_My name is Sheldon Jeffery Sands,_ he tells himself. _I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. I throw shapes, I set them up, I watch them fall. I'm living la vida loca._

- - - - - - -

_Yo quiero, a bailar en Mexico_

_Do the desperation samba, con nos amigos._

- - - - - - -


End file.
